Ascension of the Forsaken Genius

The vast gardens of House Aldreth stretched beneath the twilight sky, a sea of silver-lit greenery swaying gently with the night breeze. The scent of damp earth and fresh grass filled the air, carrying with it the distant echoes of training—clashing steel, crackling flames, the sharp hiss of wind and lightning cutting through the dark.

Sylas sat alone.

His small fingers traced patterns in the grass, the cool moisture grounding him as he listened. His siblings were out there, honing their abilities, wielding forces that shaped the very world. Fire blazed, wind howled, ice crackled, lightning roared. Their energies flared like torches, bright and undeniable.

But not him.

It had been months since the test. Months since the crystal revealed what he was.

Or rather, what he wasn’t.

He was not fire, nor water. Not wind, nor earth. He lacked the brilliance of light, the tenacity of stone, the destructive power of lightning.

Instead, he was pure energy—an affinity so rare it was nothing more than a footnote in history. So useless that even commoners with basic elemental affinities were considered more valuable than him.

He clenched his tiny fists, nails pressing into his palms. The memory of that day played over and over in his mind—his father’s disappointment, his brothers’ thinly veiled contempt, the whispers of servants pitying him.

To be born a noble and yet be seen as less…

It should have filled him with rage.

Instead, it only made him think.

What is pure energy?

The records he had stolen glimpses of in the library were frustratingly vague. Pure energy had no element. No form. No inherent traits. It did not burn like fire, flow like water, or cut like wind. It had no clear use. No obvious power.

More importantly—it was scarce.

The atmosphere was brimming with elemental forces, each easily absorbed by those with the right affinity. But pure energy? It was so faint, so diluted in existence, that it was believed to be impossible to cultivate.

One in ten million.

That was the probability of someone awakening pure energy.

Yet here he was.

The world called it worthless.

But Sylas knew better.

Weakness is just a puzzle waiting to be solved.

His past life had taught him that power wasn’t always about brute strength—it was about knowledge, understanding, and control.

If no one had found a way to harness pure energy, it only meant they had not tried hard enough.

I will.

Sylas inhaled deeply, closing his eyes.

For the past month, he had experimented in secret, mimicking the breathing techniques he had observed from his brothers. He had tried reaching out, searching for something—anything—to respond.

Each attempt ended in failure.

No warmth. No coolness. No pull.

Nothing.

But tonight, he would try something different.

Instead of forcing himself outward, instead of reaching, grasping, demanding—he stilled himself.

He let go.

His breath slowed. His heart calmed.

He focused on the spaces between things—the silence between each gust of wind, the pause between each of his own heartbeats. He focused on absence rather than presence.

And then—

Something shifted.

For the briefest moment, he felt it.

It was faint, almost imperceptible—a whisper of energy that did not push, pull, or burn, but simply existed. Like a thin thread of light stretching through the void, delicate and weightless. It did not roar like fire or crash like waves. It was subtle. Quiet. Pure.

His eyes snapped open.

His chest rose with exhilaration.

He had found it.

The world may have dismissed pure energy as nothing, but they were wrong.

It was there.

And now that he had sensed it—now that he knew where to look—he would find a way to make it his own.

One day, they would all see.

One day, they would understand.